


Charm Can Be A Heavy Burden

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Love Triangles, POV Neal Caffrey, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Mozzie is in trouble, and like the good friend that he is, Neal wants to help. He attempts to enlist Peter’s assistance, and that’s a hard sell, but a dedicated con man refuses to take no for an answer.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Charm Can Be A Heavy Burden

“Mozzie has a big problem and he really needs our help,” I say earnestly as I give Peter the full wattage of my wide-eyed blue gaze. That dazzling display usually works on marks, women of all ages, and small children. However, it seems that my handler is manifesting impressive acquired immunity to my devastating charms this morning because he merely cocks an eyebrow in a way that looks cynical. Now, besides fretting about Moz, I begin to worry that I’m losing my con man’s touch.

“Aren’t you the least bit interested in Mozzie’s dangerous dilemma?” I cajole.

“Not really,” Peter drawls.

I valiantly try to jumpstart an FBI Agent’s interest. “What if I said he’s being pursued by a perilous threat?”

“I think your little buddy can take care of himself,” Peter replies offhandedly. “He did okay pulling off ‘The Dentist of Detroit’ schtick all those years ago, so that proves he’s clever and innovative.”

“Maybe this current situation is even more scary,” I counter, again trying to whet Peter’s appetite involving an arcane case in the making.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Neal,” Peter snorts. “Next you’ll be trying to convince me that your quirky little friend is about to be rubbed out by the reincarnation of Don Corleone.”

I sigh deeply and draw a breath. “Look, Peter, I realize that you and Moz have never seen eye to eye on …. well, almost anything.”

“That’s because he’s shorter than me,” Peter smiles evilly.

“Now that was a low blow,” I answer quickly.

Peter’s sudden snicker makes me realize my unfortunate choice of words and what they unintentionally implied. I am somewhat embarrassed, and, as a distraction, I go with the pleading puppy eyes again.

Finally, Peter throws up his hands in defeat because he knows I won’t let this alone. Ergo, that means no work will get done today. “Okay, lay it on me, Skippy. What’s Haversham’s big problem? I can’t promise that I’ll help, but I’ll try to listen and not smirk at the beauty of karma.”

“I always considered you above petty payback, Peter. I do believe you have just toppled off a lofty pedestal in my mind,” I reply sorrowfully.

“Don’t push it, Neal,” my handler warns. “You can’t guilt me into aiding and abetting, if that’s your game.”

I trot out that innocent and pleading look once more, hoping it will work this time. The results are iffy with Peter grumbling, “Just to be clear, I won’t break or even bend any laws for Mozzie.”

“Not even a little wiggle room for a friend?” I plead quietly.

Peter still isn’t buying it. “Mozzie is not my friend, Neal. He’s yours, for better or worse, it seems. Let me be clear yet again. You had better not put me in a position where I have to bail you out of some cockamamie scheme that the pair of you misfits have cooked up to solve his problem. Got it?”

“Duly noted,” I reply with a nod of my head. Then I begin to lay out the bare bones of a situation that has Mozzie shivering in his boots.

“Moz’s life really is in actual danger,” I begin the twisted tale.

“From whom?” Peter demands impatiently because he wants to speed this up.

“Well, from two people really,” I waffle a bit. Now that I’ve opened this can of worms, it truly does sound strange, even to my ears. “Perhaps I need to spell out certain circumstances first to explain the gravity of the situation,” I answer meekly.

Peter huffs out an exasperated breath and pushes back in his chair. “It seems I have no choice but to listen to some kind of twisted Grimm’s Fairy tale before you finally get to the root of the matter.”

“Thank you,” I whisper gratefully. “I promise it won’t take long,” I try to pacify him.

As Peter stares at me expectantly, I begin. “You may or may not know that Mozzie is a devoted bibliophile, and he belongs to a number of book clubs. He’s well-read and astute and, apparently, that has its own appeal to certain members of the opposite sex. Over the preceding months, he has struck up a sort of relationship with another member who has become something of a sycophant, hanging on his every word. As time has passed, she’s taken it to the next level and is now hanging on his arm.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Peter says breezily, “and there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Yeah, as far as that goes,” I say mysteriously.

“So, what’s the problem?” Peter wants to know. “Either he likes her back or he doesn’t. He can always break it off if he’s uncomfortable and she’s not his cup of tea.”

“It’s not that simple, Peter. This whole Glenn Close _Fatal Attraction_ thing has gotten out of control,” I say slowly. “The lady in question wants Moz to meet her family because she’s thinking three steps ahead—like marriage, a cozy little love nest, and kids.”

Now Peter is laughing. “I just keep picturing little bald Mozzies with bifocals running around in diapers.”

“It’s not funny, Peter. This lady’s father has a lot of clout. He happens to be New York City’s Police Commissioner!”

That stops Peter’s hilarity in its tracks. “Oh no, no, no,” he says worriedly. “That’s a train wreck waiting to happen.”

“Well, that’s not the worst part,” I say ominously.

“It gets worse?” Peter looks sick to his stomach.

“Unfortunately, it does. Peter, do you remember Mozzie’s off-the-grid female associate, Sally the Hacker? She helped us once with a case.”

“Uh huh,” Peter says in dread. “The one with no last name who traded socks with another weird misfit.”

“Yep, that’s the one. Well, Moz and Sally have sort of an on and off again type thing. They occasionally get together to discuss megabytes, firewalls, and other questionable technological stuff, if you get my drift.” I was trying for tactful but failing miserably. “Anyway, Sally got wind of Moz’s new love interest, and she’s threatening to make him a eunuch if he doesn’t break it off.”

Peter looks dumbfounded. “It seems like I’ve traveled through a wormhole to another dimension if two women find themselves smitten with an irritating little gnome. Please explain the appeal because I’m clueless.”

“I can’t help you out with that because it’s certainly not something that falls within my bailiwick,” I sidestep the issue. When my handler continues to look puzzled, I try a new tactic. “Look, Peter, apparently men with high intelligence quotients are a turn on for some women, despite the fact that they appear milquetoast bland on the outside. Remember short, myopic Henry Kissinger? That brainiac in President Nixon’s cabinet managed to snag himself a wife even while orchestrating the historic Paris Peace Accord. And, if history is accurate, crusty old Ben Franklin romanced more than a few ladies during his time in France, and some that he wooed were already married to somebody else.”

“It still seems illogical,” Peter mumbles.

I sigh deeply after making my point and try to center a reluctant ally. “Forget logic when it comes to affairs of the heart, Peter. Try to focus on the current issue. Now do you see how Mozzie has gotten himself boxed in on both sides? Sally wants to maim him, and the Chief of Police will probably think of his own unique way to torture Moz when he actually ferrets out the long and checkered criminal past of the man his daughter wants to marry.”

“Woman trouble,” Peter whispers in a frightened tone. “It doesn’t get any worse than that.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “Now you’re getting the picture.”

“But how does this fall under my purview?” Peter wants to know. “I guess I could arrest Sally if she actually does carry through on her threat and castrates your irritating miniature accomplice in crimes too numerous to mention.”

“I was thinking you could be more proactive, Peter, and stop a tragedy before it happens,” I wheedle. “Mozzie has taken to wearing extremely outlandish disguises to stay under the radar, and some are really creeping me out.”

“Can’t Haversham just man up and make a decision one way or the other and relate his choice to the loser in this ludicrous threesome?” Peter says drolly. “He can either opt for a ‘friends with benefits’ scenario, or settle for a conventional life, get hitched, and wear a Kevlar athletic cup to protect the family jewels from the jilted crazed hacker.”

“Moz is a rolling stone and he doesn’t want to be tied down to anyone at this point in his life,” I inform my handler.

“I know honesty isn’t his strong suit, but if he doesn’t want to get married, he should just tell the Commissioner’s daughter and put it all to rest,” Peter makes a snap judgment that he thinks is a solution.

“Don’t you think a woman scorned sounds ominous,” I enlighten him. “She’d enlist her Daddy’s aid to squash Mozzie like a bug.”

“Maybe he could just disappear,” Peter says hopefully.

“And have the Chief of Police put out a BOLO on him?” I snark. “He’d never be able to show his face in the city again.”

“That may not be a bad thing,” Peter states snidely as he slides a look in my direction.

“C’mon, Peter, a little help here,” I plead.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Peter says miserably, “but what’s your plan going forward?”

And so, I tell him.

~~~~~~~~~~

My prime objective is to get Moz out of this love triangle and, unfortunately, that necessitates walking into the lion’s den. In this case, the predatory animal is a lioness. Sally is definitely not happy to see me and says, with no small amount of venom, that this Mozzie debacle is all my fault. “He was once a simple, uncomplicated man, but after hanging around you too long, your pretty boy charms have rubbed off on him. Now he’s tainted and become so damn irresistible to women they can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

Somehow, I’m willing to take that as a backhanded compliment, so my ego remains intact. “You’re the one he wants to be with,” I assure the jaded lovesick lady. “You can get him back easily enough. We just have to work together to take some of the gilding off the lily.”

Sally looks suspicious and paranoid, so I do some verbal tapdancing to get her in the mood. She’s almost as stubborn as Peter, but eventually I persevere and she creates what we will need to recue an anti-hero from the banal clutches of normalcy. Mozzie is going to owe me big time.

The following Saturday night finds me at the iconic art deco Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue. The massive chandeliered ballroom is the scene of the annual Policeman’s Ball that entails watered-down cocktails, greasy canapes, old fuddy-duddy dancing, and a silent auction. Ultimately it will culminate in a rubber chicken entre and long, windy speeches extolling the city’s finest men in blue. Of course, the Commissioner is front and center, glad-handing and backslapping with the local politicians while his daughter anxiously keeps scanning the arched entrance for signs of her honey. Tonight is supposed to be the big reveal. She desperately wants an elusive beau to meet her father and make a good impression. She had texted Moz about the event and expects him to momentarily stroll through door with no small degree of sophistication and gravitas all packaged in an elegantly tailored tux. Unfortunately, I have designated myself as his stand in. She doesn’t look too impressed when I sashay up to her and ask her to dance, but she straightens her spine and commits because she thinks it would probably be impolitely gauche to deny me the privilege.

We do a few turns around the parquet floor to some god-awful rendition of an Englebert Humperdink oldie entitled, _After the Lovin_ , and then I whisper in her ear that a certain conspicuously absent person is waiting for her in a limo outside. I feel no small amount of guilt when her eyes immediately sparkle and she looks hopeful. I escort her through the kitchen and her face takes on a puzzled expression, but I have her arm and suddenly we are in a back alley standing next to a long black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. I gallantly open a rear door and nudge her into the back seat, without her ever realizing that the interior light never winked on. She slides easily enough into the darkened space, maybe with visions of Moz being spontaneous and whisking her away from all this dull mediocrity with romantic elopement on his mind. Instead, she discovers that she is seated next to a tall man in a dark suit.

Peter’s face remains in shadow, and his deep baritone voice is commanding and low. “We need to have a talk about your paramour,” he tells a startled ingénue, “and it is imperative that we keep this discussion under the radar. Do I make myself clear?”

The young woman becomes rigid with fear and looks ready to bolt, but I am standing in her way. Thankfully, her curiosity gets the better of her. “Where’s Mozzie?” she boldly demands to know.

“No names!” Peter hisses. “It is vital for everyone’s safety that we exercise extreme caution.”

“Is he in danger?” she suddenly asks in fear.

“He’s vulnerable, but his continued wellbeing really depends on you,” Peter baits the hook with ease and I’m quite impressed.

“Me?” the confused woman squeaks.

“Yes, it rests squarely on your shoulders,” Peter reiterates. “Normally, our organization doesn’t allow itself to rely on a civilian’s discretion, but these are dangerous times and exceptions have to be made to keep an on-going operation from being compromised.”

“Huh?” was the expected response from the person sitting beside Peter. Finally, she manages to utter something more coherent. “What organization?”

“What I’m about to reveal can never leave the confines of this car,” Peter says firmly. “If you relate to anyone what I’m about to show you, national security will be in grave jeopardy. I’m sure you’re a patriot who loves her country, so are you on board?”

“Sure—of course,” she murmurs in awe. This weird cloak and dagger stuff is tantalizing, like a John Le Carre novel, and she’s sucked in.

Having gotten her solemn promise, Peter opens a small laptop that was sitting on the seat between them. I watch him enter in a string of letters, _E, G, B, D, F_ , which I happen to know is the mnemonic for _Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge._ Peter probably learned that sequence as a child if he was forced to take piano lessons and master the notes on sheet music. I know that’s a bit nerdy, but at least it’s better than using his own date of birth or Satchmo’s name. After finishing the password, Peter then places his index finger on a pad and the screen immediately comes to life revealing Mozzie’s picture squarely in the center and the name, _Dante Haversham,_ printed below.

The woman beside Peter draws in her breath. She’s flabbergasted to see a mockup of a CIA dossier, complete with a pretentious logo and **“Top Secret”** written across a banner at the top. Sally, bless her evil little heart, has done a pretty good job blending authenticity and understatement. Even I would have become a believer.

Peter clears his throat. “Your _‘friend’_ is deeply embedded in a very dangerous situation. I’ve been an observer sitting on the periphery for some time, and let me tell you, some of what he’s been involved in makes me break out in a cold sweat,” Peter says somberly. I detect there is more than a grain of truth in that profound declaration.

“So, he’s a spy?” the captivated lady murmurs in fascination.

Peter keeps his tone level. “We at the agency don’t use labels, so I can neither confirm nor deny his status. Nevertheless, at this stage of the game, let’s just say it’s become very serpentine, and his attraction to you has put him in a precarious situation that could become lethal.”

“What can I do?” a distressed female quickly asks in trepidation.

“Walk away,” Peter says firmly. “If you love your country, you’ll do the right thing and sacrifice your happiness for the greater good. Your ‘friend’ will understand. He may have lapsed a bit and become careless with his affection, but he has sworn an oath to a higher power and now realizes where his primary loyalty must lie. With your cooperation, he will live to fight another day. There aren’t many like him out there in the world.”

“Walk away …” a suddenly sorrowful young lady utters miserably. “That’s going to be so hard.”

Peter nods his head in commiseration. “You know it has to be done, and if you truly care about him, you’ll let him go. I have faith that you’ll be brave enough to do it.”

“I am!” she suddenly states with true conviction.

“Great!” Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “Now, if you happen to see him on the street, walk right past without a backward glance. This all has to remain hush hush to keep his cover intact.”

“I can do that,” the lady states adamantly as she pantomimes zipping her lips with a finger.

After that confident and self-sacrificing statement, she finally exits the car and I slide into her vacated place. Peter and I watch her walk back into the hotel with her head held proudly and a new “higher” purpose. “You were pretty good, Peter, like Lawrence Olivier good,” I say in admiration. “You’ve missed your true calling.”

Peter preens for a few seconds before nailing me with a laser gaze. “You and your little ‘spy’ buddy have accrued a big debt in my personal ledger.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” I quickly reply. “Moz and I will figure out a way to express his gratitude.”

Peter thinks about the ramifications of this promise before answering with a shiver, “Please don’t, Neal. I may not survive any of your favors!”


End file.
